Harry Potter and the Locked Room
by danvevers
Summary: In his seventh year at Hogwarts, Harry finds many questions still unanswered as he searches to destroy the remaining segments of Voldemort's soul. What do his dreams mean? Who is R.A.B? And what is the imminent danger posed by the basement of Azkaban?...
1. Chapter 1: Azkaban's Oldest Prisoner

Chapter 1: Azkaban's Oldest Prisoner

The man and the woman walked side by side.

"Where do you start though?" the man asked, sighing in light frustration, as he and the woman walked the dimly-lit corridor. "A mole in the Department of Mysteries! So what? We're all Unspeakables! We are this country's intellectual elite! How is anyone ever going to find out?"

"What point are you trying to make, Croaker?" replied the woman in a low hissy voice. "You aren't being so unspeakable when if you haven't noticed, we're walking past jail cells that happen to be holding – surprise, surprise – _people!_"

Azkaban's main holding floor was made of a dirty, cold, heavy stone. The huge room was completely windowless, the half-light inside a mysterious golden brown. As the pair of Department of Mysteries employees walked down the corridor, dark cells flanked them, sealed off by thick, straight (and, Croaker knew, magically protected) steel bars. If Croaker happened to peer in he would perhaps see greasy, leering prisoners, whether male or female, and would perhaps note their clammy skin, ragged appearance and haunted eyes, wallowing in despair that the Dementors, although gone, seemed to have left in their wake. He looked at his fellow employee – it was the first time they had ever partnered one another, even if it was just for a small, routine mission like today. He didn't feel much inclined towards the young woman – she was very nippy and unfriendly, and became very wound up when the subject of the mole was brought up.

"What are you looking at?" she said, narrowing her eyes upon catching Croaker's stare.

"Oh, well – you know," blustered Croaker, for a minute, before he spun the lie. "I was just thinking – what happened to you when you felt those … those things."

"What bloody things?"

"Oh, you know," responded Croaker impatiently. "Those things that are guarding Azkaban … _now_."

New guards for Azkaban had been brought in recently, replacing the abandoning Dementors.

"It felt weird, nothing like I'd ever felt before. Now shut up."

"I don't trust them, Naomi, the Ministry is allying with the wrong creatures yet again," Croaker stated. He almost added that he didn't trust her either, but thought better of it – even so, he couldn't help but wonder whether she had anything to do with the mole business, she always became so hostile whenever it was mentioned.

"I don't trust men," she snapped back. "And we're not on first name terms Mr. Croaker," she added, but cast him the tiniest hint of a smile. "From now on, call me Miss McGonagall –'

"Young love," interrupted a drawling voice from one of the cells. "I would give you my blessing, Croaker, but rumour has it you're a Mudblood."

Both Croaker and Naomi fell quiet, dislike washing over them. Then Croaker walked to the cell at which Lucius Malfoy knelt, his head in between the bars.

"Well, well, well," said Croaker, looking satisfied. 'I haven't seen you, Lucius, since … now let me think … since I saw the Aurors clap you in irons two summers ago. In the Department of Mysteries' Death Chamber, don't you remember Malfoy? I pray you haven't forgotten what I told you in a somewhat threatening whisper that night?"

"Oh of course not," Lucius Malfoy replied sardonically, his grey eyes looking more malicious than ever. "I didn't think you'd have the brains to realise it though, no one else did – well, little Potter had an idea it was me, let's give the filthy boy _some _credit – "

"Bode was not only a colleague, he was my best friend!" Croaker yelled. "You'd better hope you never get out of here."

"Oh, you know I will be, soon enough," Malfoy retorted. "My master will come for me … and I hear tell that the old fool who put me in this foul place … well, let's just say we won't be seeing him again."

He laughed nastily. Croaker moved a little closer to Malfoy's cell, who in turn shuffled back a little. Croaker saw clearly that in Malfoy's penetrating sea-grey eyes a hollow, deadened black was kindling.

"Dumbledore was a great man, and well, what you lot did to him was the Death Eaters all over," Croaker rasped with soft venom. "Murder in the dark, murder them when they're weak and can't fight back … I call it cowardice. The Wizarding world is baying for Severus Snape's blood. He won't last long."

"The Dark Lord has."

"That creature is no lord!" Croaker said, his voice rising as he pulled out his wand.

"Don't –" Naomi began, but Malfoy spoke over her.

"You have never met him," Malfoy said in a rising voice, his eyes glazing over. "You have no idea … either of you … " He looked directly at Naomi for a long moment, before asking: "What have you two been doing here anyway?"

"Like we would tell you!" Naomi McGonagall replied scornfully. In honesty, they partly didn't know themselves. They would simply go down to Azkaban's basement and make written observations on a lone, very old-looking man there. He was unconscious – in fact, he looked all but dead. For some absurd reason it was one of their most important and secretive missions, however routine and tedious – their reports would be filed and sent to the Death Chamber in the Department of Mysteries for further examination.

He was on the lowest floor in the darkest room of the wizard prison. He had been there for more than fifty years, contained by one of the most powerful spells ever conjured. He never spoke. His skin was white and stretched; his eyes dead yet at the same time madly alive, as if haunted. His hair was white and wispy; his face long, grey and expressionless. No man or woman alive had seen his face for half a century, not even prisoners incarcerated in Azkaban - only the Dementors had occasionally glimpsed him before they had left to side with Lord Voldemort. The Dementors had never lingered long in the basement, for what would attract them to a prisoner who was completely empty of any feeling they could have fed off? There was nothing to this old wizard that would attract anyone it would seem, yet little did he or anyone else know that someone out there was in fact very interested in him -interested in his past, his downfall, and most of all - his future. That same someone was brewing a plot to break the old captive out of his basement cell and out of Azkaban altogether.

Yet the prisoner was protected in ways that Voldemort hadn't quite figured out how to break. Not yet. Voldemort was still killing, still bewitching, still hoodwinking, still meticulously plotting to attain domination of the Wizarding world, but his priority was still the same: to conquer death. To achieve this, something inside Voldemort knew there were three things he must do: hear the prophecy concerning him in full, kill Harry Potter, and discover the secret of how to break from Azkaban its oldest resident. Something else inside him said that these three things were intravenously linked.

The name of Azkaban's oldest prisoner? It was a name that the older Wizarding community still knew and feared: Grindelwald.


	2. Chapter 2: Coming of Age

Chapter 2: Coming of Age

Harry Potter woke up, more alert than he normally was in the middle of the night. He had been dreaming and his mind was reeling, his memory rushing through the fresh images and sounds he had just seen and heard, yet no matter how hard he tried he couldn't make any real sense or connection of them. He felt thoroughly frustrated. Harry had been having dreams the same or similar ever since he had got back to the Dursleys, number four Privet Drive, at the beginning of the summer.

The dreams always began in the graveyard: the graveyard where Harry had seen Voldemort rise, regenerated, from Wormtail's cauldron. Voldemort would approach Harry, his red eyes gleaming; his wand poised, and he would say, a spiteful smile curling his lipless mouth: "you see, I think, how foolish it was to suppose that this boy could have ever been stronger than me." Then light. Light and song. The light was so pure and the song so beautiful that Harry felt an overwhelming sense of peace and comfort ... and moments later he would see it ... a golden key shimmering feet away, just out of reach. The next thing he knew he would be sitting in Dumbledore's office, staring across the desk at his old headmaster, who would lean forward, his blue eyes twinkling, and say: "There is a room in the Department of Mysteries that is kept locked at all times. It contains a force that is at once more wonderful and terrible than death, than human intelligence, than the forces of nature. It is also, perhaps, the most mysterious of the many subjects for study that reside there. It is the power held within that room that you possess in such quantities and which Voldemort has not at all." Then more brilliant, bright light and beautiful song would envelope Harry, and feet from him he would see a knife-hilt but with no blade and would hear a voice he was sure he recognised; a voice shouting over and over again: _"Alohomora! Alohomora_!" Harry would proceed to wake with a start.

Harry pushed away his covers and got to his feet, wearing pyjamas, and he took a look at his watch, lying next to the lamp on his bedside desk. It was twenty to eleven. His room was fairly cluttered, what with bags of owl treats littering the floor, an owl cage on his windowsill with a wide-eyed snowy owl inside, piles of books lying around here there and everywhere and other curious magical artefacts dotted about - Harry thought it strange that this could be the last time he'd ever be here again, yet he had said his goodbyes to the Dursleys that evening – not that they had returned his manners. He was set to go.

"Harry," said a quiet voice. Harry whipped around; it was Dudley Dursley, sporting checked pyjamas that seemed to be stretching in front of Harry's very eyes.

Harry had called Dudley many names throughout his life, from "big D" to "pig in a wig" to "Dino the Rhino", but he had recently began to referring to him as "the canary and the blowfish's secret love-child", which was now by far his preferred choice. However, before he could utter his slightly unkind greeting, Dudley spoke again:

"It was him I saw."

"What?" asked Harry, non-plussed.

"When ... those things got me two years ago_. The Dementors_. I saw him ... the one who killed your parents."

"Voldemort?" exclaimed Harry, taking a step towards his cousin. Dudley nodded. "But how, Dudley, you've never seen him before?"

"I have," said Dudley. "I've dreamt about him before. More than once. The first time was years and years ago, in fact. He talked about how he killed your parents. About how he tried to kill you."

Harry stared at his cousin. This had to be joke - all Dudley had ever been to him was a bully and a nuisance.

"This isn't funny!" said Harry angrily. "What did he look like then?"

"H - h - horrible. Like a snake. Big red eyes ..." Dudley trailed off. "I saw him ... I know it ..."

Dudley, oddly, looked close to tears. Real tears, Harry noted with surprise, remembering Dudley's talent for melodramatic crocodile tears during Harry's hellish childhood with the Dursleys.

"Wow ..." replied Harry slowly, after a pause. "I - just - well, I never had any idea ..."

"Any idea of what?" asked Dudley anxiously.

"You had a vision. A magical one." Dudley was speechless. He looked half-horrified. "It's not important, Dudley, I won't tell anyone," said Harry heavily. "And I'm afraid I've got a bus to catch ... but, well, put it here Dudley."

He held out his hand. There was a long pause as the cousins stared at each other, both perhaps realizing the complete strangeness of their predicaments. Dudley looked uncertain, almost wary, but he took it, if slowly.

"I'm sorry,' he said, not quite looking at Harry as he shook his hand. "I've not been the best person to live with."

Harry almost laughed - this was so unexpected. But then Dudley suddenly let go.

"Ah, I was wondering how long the nicey-nicey stuff would last!" Harry muttered, annoyed. But Dudley wasn't listening; he looked wide-eyed; terrified.

"Don't go back!" he yelled, shaking. Harry frowned deeply.

"What Dudley –" Harry began.

"Don't go back there! Where the dog died! Don't go back!"

Dudley was tripping over himself to leave the room. 'Don't go back!' he kept yelping. Dudley was running across the landing to his room.

"Dudley - what? –" Harry had half a mind to follow him, but before he could two figures apparated in front of his very eyes.

"We best get going, Harry, before 12 ideally -" said Fred Weasley.

"I heard You-Know-Who gets cranky this time of night," added his twin brother George.

Harry grinned. "Where are we going then?"

"Grimmauld Place," the twins said together. A shadow flickered over Harry's face.

"Oh," he said, trying to remain sounding cheerful. "OK, cool."

"Your birthday's not until tomorrow, so you better side-along apparate with one of us," George told Harry, however Harry's lips curled into a smile.

"You can't be serious, since when have you ever cared about the rules?" Harry said.

"Splinching's no picnic," Fred replied earnestly.

"There's not even any food involved," George added equally seriously.

"Come on, seriously guys! I'm seventeen in what? – an hour!" said Harry half-laughing. "I managed to apparate not just myself last year but D -" The smile faded instantly from his face. George and Fred looked down at their shoes fidgeting. "Anyway," said Harry briskly, his voice suddenly alarmingly cheery. "What we going to Grimmauld Place for? The burrow's alright isn't it?"

"Yeah but it doesn't have the same strength of magical protection," Fred informed.

"Well why doesn't someone cast a stronger protective spell? - "

"I don't know," said Fred abruptly, and looking slightly surly - Harry was not convinced. "Anyway," George added. "Grimmauld Place is still the Order's HQ - and come tomorrow, when you turn 17 ... why you can be inducted if you so choose."

Harry suddenly felt slightly happier. He would finally get to fight! He could finally join the society founded by Dumbledore himself, wherein he could at last join forces with fully grown wizards to fight the dark side! Harry sighed in a sarcastically exasperated way.

"Well I was originally going to get the Night bus, but alright you got me. Side-along apparition it is. I never liked the tube, though."

"Come on, Harry," said Fred, buoyantly. "If it was a choice between apparition and a bumpy bus ride what would he choose?"

Harry truthfully couldn't decide – he held no fondness for either. "Neither, ideally," he said finally, to Fred and George's laughter.

"Well, ideally I want to get home and sleep off my headache," began Fred.

"He drank a bit too much firewhisky earlier," added George grinning. "I told him not to drink and apparate, but would he listen? I look forward to having his body parts sent to me from Switzerland if he ever drinks too much again and splinches."

Fred gave a short laugh of false amusement and held out his arm, which Harry grabbed, and within moments saw the picture of number 4 Privet Drive, so meticulously neat and suburban, dissolve before his very eyes - had he just seen it for the last time? But he had no more time to think - he suddenly felt the expected but uncomfortably bizarre feeling of being sucked into a giant hoover and barely fitting inside its tight cylinder before at last he landed on his feet, still clutching Fred's sleeve though he released him quickly and steadied himself on his feet.

He looked at a place he hadn't visited since its previous owner had died, yet now Harry knew that it was his, whether reluctantly so or not. He knew tomorrow was the day he would officially come of age in the terms of Wizarding law, but it was today he had walked out of the home he had lived in since the age of one; today that he had said goodbye to the only family he knew; today that he had started drawing up the plans for his journey to hunt down Voldemort's horcruxes - Harry knew that today, although not his birthday, he had come of age. Today he had joined the big, daunting world of adulthood.


	3. Chapter 3: Simply Too Many Thoughts

Chapter 3: Simply Too Many Thoughts

Harry awoke, lying in his bed at number 12 Grimmauld place. He hadn't been here since Sirius had died. The fresh images and sounds from Harry's dreams the night before overwhelmed his barely conscious mind, running into a single stream of indecipherable colour and gobbledegook which was only starting to become clearer and make more sense as Harry got out of bed and dressed.

The graveyard … bone of the father … Avery screaming … then a flash and Harry was somewhere completely different, battling with Devil's Snare. Dumbledore … what was he saying? - … Harry couldn't hold off the plant … "things aren't _boding_ well," Dumbledore muttered, and then the Devil's Snare turned into a snake, which hissed "there is nothing worse than death, Dumbledore!" … then a gong-like note … a silver shield … and finally everything went light, phoenix song erupted around Harry … Dumbledore was weak … he grabbed Harry's arm. "Severus! I – need – Severus –"

"No! Harry had cried. "He's a murderer –"

"Get – Severus …"

"HE KILLED YOU, PROFESSOR!" Harry had yelled, tears spilling down his face, as the phoenix song turned to a heart-wrenching lament. "HE TOOK YOU AWAY FROM US!"

"SEVERUS!" Dumbledore kept yelling, and then – "I WANT TO DIE! KILL ME." But Dumbledore then became strong and upright again, looking down at Harry in a way benignly yet in another way absolutely seriously. Was this his office, Harry was wildly thinking, or somewhere else? … "Do you not see the flaw in my plan yet? … I cared for you too much … love, Harry … you will understand …"

A door burst open. A scream. A click. It was over; there was no more to the dream.

Simply reliving the dream had exhausted Harry – he put his head in his hands just as Ron Weasley, Harry's best friend, walked in.

"All right Harry, good to see you a –" He stopped dead upon seeing Harry, hands on forehead. "Scar?" he asked anxiously.

"Er, what?" Harry said. "Oh right, nah, Voldemort put a stop to that, remember? I was just tired."

Ron winced before speaking again, annoying Harry a little.

"Well, happy birthday mate! Mum's making one of her ultra-breakfasts. To try and _fatten you up_ a little. Is she roasting you at Christmas or something?"

"Not that I know of," Harry replied, chuckling. "So," he continued, would-be-casually. "Where's everyone else?"

They both knew perfectly well that by "everyone else", Harry did not mean Mrs Weasley, or Fleur, or Bill and Charlie, the oldest Weasley brothers – he meant Ginny, his now ex-girlfriend, as of Professor Dumbledore's funeral. Ron raised his eyebrows. It never boded well when he did that, Harry recalled.

"Presuming you mean my little sister Ginny," Ron said calmly but with more than a hint of accusation in his voice, "she's at the Burrow helping Fleur, Gabrielle, Bill and Charlie prepare for the wedding."

Harry hadn't forgotten about the wedding – he was rather looking forward to it. "But," he said, faltering, "Wouldn't Ginny rather be here? I thought she didn't like Phlegm."

He smiled inwardly remembering Ginny's funny attitude towards her brother's fiancée – it was merely the fact that it was a memory of Ginny, of last year, that made him smile.

"Obviously she wouldn't rather be here," Ron retorted scathingly. "She'll at least manage to be in the same room as Fleur without bursting into tears – "

"Oh great, so what, Ginny hates me?" Harry interrupted hotly. "A 'Happy Birthday' would've sufficed, Ron –"

"Oh, Ginny doesn't hate you, Harry," said an impatient voice at the door. It was Hermione Granger, Harry's bushy-haired other best friend alongside Ron. "Of course she's upset, she misses you so much Harry, but she understands what's going on, she accepts that she can't see you."

She cast Ron a wholly disgusted look, and before Harry could reply with "She does?" Ron had risen to Hermione.

"Don't you dare give me those eyes!" he snapped heatedly. "She's my little sister, Hermione, and Harry's just …" Ron faltered, appearing irresolute.

"Just what, exactly, Ron?" Harry asked imperiously, his eyes locking onto Ron's suddenly.

Ron hesitated, determinedly looking away: "Well, messing about with her."

Hermione gasped in outrage, but Harry said nothing; he merely smacked Ron in the jaw with his fist before really collecting himself. Ron stumbled back, staring up at Harry stunned, who breathed deeply.

"_Harry!" _Hermione cried, equally scandalized with the pair of them now, but Ron took one look at the quickly breathing Harry, strode the length of the room and left it.

"Oh, _Harry_," Hermione said exasperatedly as Ron slammed the door. "What was possibly to gain by doing that?"

"Nothing," Harry replied forcefully. "Dudley would've gained more, he's a boxer –"

"I didn't mean that and well you know it," Hermione responded waspishly. She bit her lip. "You two better have sorted this by lunchtime, or else I'll transfigure you both into toilet seats. I refuse to be you pair's little messenger either." Harry knew she was referring to the few weeks in their fourth year when Harry and Ron had refused to speak to each other – all for a pretty petty reason too. Harry knew Ron's reasoning was far more serious this time though – Harry couldn't think of a single person closer to his heart than Ginny Weasley.

Hermione unexpectedly hugged Harry. "Oh, happy birthday, I do apologise for Ron. It's just him being an over-protective brother, not that you'd really understand – "

She stopped, evidently horrified by what she'd said. Harry let go of her and stepped back very quickly. "I didn't mean that, it came out wrong!" cried Hermione, looking close to tears. _No change there,_ Harry thought irritably.

"Well," he said slowly, gulping. "I suppose you're right. I mean what do I know about families? Or brothers or sisters? How should little deprived Harry know how Ron or Ginny are feeling, he didn't even have parents! I mean, you're right, what could I _possibly_ know about that. Yep, you got it Hermione, nothing –'

"Harry – I didn't – I just – I'm really sorry, please Harry!"

"I think I'll go check out the house, see how it's doing," Harry cut across Hermione, before opening the door and letting himself out of the room, leaving his friend in his wake.

However, Harry had barely left the landing and crossed to the staircase when a face spoke from behind him.

"Wotcher Harry," said Tonks cheerfully, her short pink hair as vivid as ever. "What you wanting to go up those stairs for? I thought you'd have learnt by now that this house gets more miserable the higher the altitude!" She smiled gently, and Harry returned it, turning around. "Anyway," she continued. "There's an important meeting down in the lounge. The invite list was a hard one to make – it's extremely short, but you're on it! Right at the start actually."

Harry was curious. "Is this for the order?" Tonks shrugged.

"Not exactly. Go down to the lounge – you'll see." She turned to go through the door on the landing which led to her room.

"Where are you going then?" asked a baffled Harry. Tonks actually laughed out loud.

"Harry, get going, before you're late! I, dear boy, am not invited! And Happy Birthday too!"

She went into her room, closing the door behind her, and Harry made his way downstairs, wondering what sort of meeting he could possibly be the first on the list to be invited to.

As he descended onto the ground floor, Harry was thoroughly surprised to see a beautiful young woman with long red hair fiddling with something outside the lounge door.

"Ginny?" Harry said in bafflement, and he walked towards her. "I thought you were staying at the Burrow this summer?"

Ginny's cheeks tinged pink. "I was requested to come here," she mumbled. "Got here by Floo just a second ago." She waited for a short moment as if she expected Harry to speak, but he instead did something of a goldfish impression, opening his mouth once or twice and closing it. Then, without another gesture or word, Ginny opened the lounge door and walked in, and Harry followed her.

He tried to sit next to Ginny, but Professor McGonagall met Harry at the door and, her hair in a tight bun but her lips a little less pursed than usual, gave Harry a brief greeting and ushered him into a reserved seat in the front row of a small assembled bunch of wooden chairs all facing one way – leaving Harry no less confused. People slowly filed into the warm, orangey lounge, some he knew and some he didn't. An old, smiley man with blue eyes; Alastor Moody; Hagrid, stooping to fit inside the doorway, and using up three chairs when he finally sat down; a collection of house elves including a ridiculously-clad Dobby; Arthur and Molly Weasley; a dark middle-aged looking woman; and finally, it looked like, Remus Lupin.

There was quiet shuffling as the assortment of people and creatures chose seats and took them, and once hush had been achieved again Minerva McGonagall pushed herself to her feet and moved to the front of the lounge, every one of the chairs and its occupants facing her.

She silently summoned a piece of parchment from the table behind her and conjured a small red lectern for it to stand on, before casting on herself a spell that would increase the volume of her voice minimally. She took a deep breath.

"Well, some of you may have guessed," began McGonagall in mildly reverberating tones. "But today is the reading of Albus Dumbledore's last will and testament, and everyone in this room is one of his inheritors." There was a short pause as the quiet crowd waited for McGonagall to continue. "I feel I should make light immediately of Albus's opening request." She cleared her throat and looked intently at the parchment beneath her before continuing: "'I hope it has not failed to escape your notice, before anyone reads this, that I have in fact passed on to what I always tended to call the next great adventure. The first and foremost request I have is that my last will and testament is read to all present by none other than Harry James Potter.'"

Around the room there was a general short intake of breath. Harry stared, unmoving and avoiding the eyes turning to him, and instead stared at McGonagall as she continued to read.

"'You see, myself and Harry were recently working in very close proximity, and I pray we forged a relationship beyond that of normal student and teacher – perhaps one of great friendship. As I am sufficiently dead enough to be unable to pass judgement, I'll leave Harry to be the judge of that.'" The crowd tittered, smiling. "'I would hazard a guess at knowing how Harry is currently feeling, though I know it annoys him when I try!'" Harry smiled before McGonagall continued, blinking a little behind her spectacles. "'I would say that my funeral did not give Harry much real emotional closure, what with all the elaborate waffling I presume was made on the day, when all I'd ever really want anyone to say of me is: _Nitwit, Blubber, Oddment _and _Tweak_.'" Harry laughed as he felt his heartstrings pull – he had thought the same thing at the funeral. "'I can think of no spokesman I'd prefer to Harry, and it may give him a better chance for this aforementioned closure. He has every right to refuse to do so, but I urge Harry to remember the night in his fourth year when I told him numbing the pain for a little while would only make it worse when he finally felt it. So if he does indeed choose to accept this, I must also request that he does not stop and give up whilst reading, however he may feel.'" McGonagall looked up at him abruptly. "Signed: Albus Percival Wulmfric Brian Dumbledore," she concluded.

A sense of waiting stole the lounge, and Harry knew all eyes were on him. McGonagall looked imploringly at Harry, in the front row, from her lectern. Harry hardly had to think – he knew Dumbledore had left him with a choice between what was right and what was easy.

"I'll do it," he said, and the tension in the room relaxed as Harry got to his feet shakily and moved to the front, and to the lectern, where McGonagall waited. "Sonorus," she said lightly, pointing her wand at Harry when he arrived at the small lectern, before moving to her own wooden chair in the front row.

Harry cleared his throat, noticing the slightly echoing, amplified nature of his cough. He looked around at the room, full of sympathetic and some watery eyes, and knew this was something that he not only _should_, but _had_ to do. The right thing to do … the easy thing would have been staying in his seat. Harry took a calming breath before starting to read to the congregation.

"'Those who have inherited objects from me shall find whatever they have gained in their bedroom upon their re-arrival to wherever their home is, and those who have inherited from me financially will find it transferred directly into their banks,'" Harry began. He paused again before continuing. "'Brother Aberforth –'" the old smiley blue eyed man stood up and waved manically at Harry – "'other than my unconditional love, which you will always maintain, I give to you two thoroughly recommended books: one concerns the magical rights of goats while the other is a very helpful book on reading which your basic English tutor may be able to work through with you.'" Aberforth nodded thoughtfully and sat down. "'To Alastor Moody, a faithful and enigmatic friend, I gift you my – if I say so myself – rather marvellous and ranging collection of Dark detectors, which I know you have always coveted and will be delighted to have pass into your ownership. Thank you for refraining from theft.'" The crowd chuckled again, but Moody did not stand up, instead merely smiling gently, his scars stretching on his face around his outstanding blue mechanical eye.

"'To Arthur and Molly Weasley – two of the most fantastic, kind and caring parents I've ever had the fortune of encountering. Love is abundant and as welcome as the family members in your house!'" Arthur hugged his wife as Harry read aloud, and tears trickled down Mrs Weasley's face. "'I dedicate to your family account in Gringott's all the money I have in my own. I have never in my life met a family more deserving of this money, and I am aware of how crippling financial strain can be when a mother and father are trying to support as many beautiful and endearing children as you are.'" Harry looked up from the will to see Mrs Weasley give Ginny a watery smile across the row before returning to Harry.

"'To my dear Hagrid,'" Harry continued reading, as he located the huge half-giant's tear-strewn face in one of the middle rows. "'I often see you drinking beverages from mugs of standard size, and I often muse how frustrating this must be for persons of your height and weight – it seems, dear fellow, that you simply just don't own enough buckets.'" The lounge burst into warm laughter while Hagrid shrugged with a sheepish, crinkly smile, and Harry grinned before reading again. "'I took the liberty of making you a collection of mugs a larger, far more sensible size for you, in the hope that in a future day of peace, you, Harry, Ron and Hermione can once more drink from them in your hut.

"'To the hard-working house-elves of Hogwarts' employ,'" read Harry, turning away from Hagrid who was now positively bawling, "'I dedicate every sock in my vast possession, and commend them for their fantastic work, and pray they do not disappoint either under my successor at Hogwarts. Dobby will particularly appreciate the footwear.'"

Dobby, who was wearing an airy-blue nightgown, a purple fez, and toeless red and green socks, wiped away a tear with a long, crooked finger. Harry winked at him, and Dobby stood up on his chair and bowed graciously, before sitting down and leaving Harry to continue his reading once more. He cleared his throat again.

"'To Minerva,'" said Harry, locking eyes with her as she gazed intently at him, a look of vulnerability in her experienced features that Harry had never expected to find. "'You have, as long as I have known you, always just toed the line, and helped keep my toes on the ground if I became somewhat nonsensical! No longer being alive, my successor is of course not my decision, but I could not possibly think of anyone more adequate than you. If I assume correctly that you have indeed succeeded me, I leave to you my office and everything that remains in it, as well as a short hand-written manual on the spells and their methods which you will need to maintain the same level of security on the school. Finally, I also hand to you something beautiful I know you shall appreciate, which in fact used to belong to my very own mother.'"

Looking a little emotional, McGonagall smiled, as if knowingly, before Harry turned his attention back to the will.

"'Anne,'" Harry read, and the dark middle-aged woman perked up, "'I'm confident it won't be long before one of the top teams sees fit to sign you up. Until Charlie Weasley and Harry Potter came along, a seeker like you hadn't been seen in Gryffindor for many years. I sought out for you a top-of-the-range brand new Firebolt 2, and added a few little extras and alterations of my own design for added quality and enjoyment, and to help you on your imminent road to Quidditch success. I pray you remember what I told you the first time I met you after you left Hogwarts, and use it to your advantage.

"'Ah Remus, you are an extraordinary man!'" continued Harry, just as the woman called Anne let out a dry sob. "'To bear your burdens and cope with your hardships. It never ceases to amaze me how you live such a life and remain so pure of heart and good, and I know people who will benefit greatly from your counsel.'" Harry knew instantly who Dumbledore had meant. "'I dedicate to you four sets of lovely dress robes that I feel will suit you far more than me, and give you my blessing for something I very much hope has happened romantically for you recently!'" Several people, Harry saw with a wry grin, turned to Remus Lupin to give him an _I-told-you-so_ look.

"'Also,'" Harry read, and his heart skipped a beat at the name, "'to Ginny Weasley I must first ask for her patience.'" Harry quickly looked over and saw she had leant forwards a little, frowning; confused. "'What she has gained I request she uses only when she feels the time is right. You will find it in your room today, Miss Weasley, and you will understand – I only ask you do not disclose the information to anyone until it becomes necessary they know.

"'And so finally, to Harry Potter.'" Any puzzlement Harry had just experienced at the words concerning Dumbledore's donation to Ginny quickly evaporated as his thoughts turned to what the will would say about him … he knew this was where it was going to get difficult, and personal, like Dumbledore had obviously predicted. All the tension in his stomach and lungs, and the rising sense of grief in his heart, Harry now tried to channel into one huge gasping breath, which made him visibly shake.

"'Harry,'" he read in a far softer voice. "'None of what happened, not the smallest little thing, was your fault. Never, in all my years at Hogwarts, did I ever meet a student I cared for as much as you, and I know now how lucky I was to have met you. You and I alone know the details of your mission, and you and I alone know that you will – that you will succeed … r – remember that you … that you will never rest until it is done, you know inside yourself that this is not something you could ever let go of.'" Harry felt a prickling in the corner of his eyes, and realised how much harder it was becoming to get these words out. Harry stared at the eloquent, loopy handwriting of Albus Dumbledore on the smooth, yellowy parchment, and felt a powerful jolt of terrible despair near his heart, but knew he had to battle on, remembering how he had felt on the night of Voldemort's resurrection … staring into Dumbledore's blue eyes full of concern … the feeling that he was slowly but surely extracting something poisonous …

"'All that you inherit from me, you will of course find in your bedroom, and I pray you will put what I have left to good use … it is important, Harry, very, almost as important as everything you have read today.'"

Up at the front, facing head-on the sea of faces, Harry could not help but feel remote and alone. The lounge was so still now, every person was soundless, and the very air seemed to have made a pact with silence. Harry felt his lip tremble once involuntarily.

"'I once told Lucius Malfoy,'" Harry continued reading aloud, "'at a meeting you may mysteriously be aware of, that I would never be gone from Hogwarts as long as there were those – those who remained … remained loyal to me.'" At these words, Harry started to cry. It was his loyalty that had allowed Dumbledore to drink the terrible potion in the cave that had weakened him so dramatically before his death. The room, this lounge … was so silent – Harry found it unbearable as he heard his own weeping pierce the deafening stillness all around, as if filling a dark, echoing chasm.

Through his sobs, Harry read on: "'This – this still stands today. Believe in me. Believe in love. Above all, Harry, believe in you. I – I did not set you apart. Voldemort did not set you apart. You, Harry, you set yourself apart, and it is essential you understand that … always.'"

Harry's heart was trapped in a clenched fist, and his head was numb with a grief he had never encountered before … he couldn't stand it … he wanted to yell … and then curl into a ball, alone and in darkness. His hand tightened around the will, and it crumpled ever so slightly. McGonagall twitched minutely as if to move, but she did not, she merely watched Harry, as the rest of the room did, in silence, at the boy grieving and sobbing uncontrollably in front of them all, lost and despairing, a piece of parchment clutched in his violently shaking hand.

Time – how long? – passed. Eventually, Harry found the strength to unfold the will and hold it up once again, and, tears glistening on his pale cheeks, his eyes swollen and small under his glasses, he followed the reading from where he had left off in a low, hushed, trembling voice.

"'I feel no embarrassment in admitting that you touched my life … and you brought out in me a joyously fresh energy I did not expect to meet at such an age. You showed an old man what it was to be – what it was to be young, and reminded me of what it is … to love.'" No room had ever been quieter as Harry reached the end of Dumbledore's will between tears. "'You rescued me from my own ignorant mistakes … and I feel it is important that I – that I tell you this: I am, and always w-will be, Harry Potter's m-man, through and through. In seemly modesty, Albus Dumbledore.'"

Harry finally dropped the will, and gave everyone a huge watery smile worthy of Hagrid - he didn't know if it was because of Dumbledore's amusing sign-off or because of the fantastic all-consuming feeling that the last bit of poison had been sapped from his body through reading the will to the congregation, but he could tell Dumbledore had hoped he would feel thus. It struck him in those first moments of recovery that although Dumbledore had gone, and left immense emptiness in his place in Harry's heart, Harry had transformed into someone who would be able to cope with the burden of the loss, and who, through the will, had found a way to channel his grief.

"Harry dear," said a soft gentle voice, who Harry turned and was surprised to see was Professor McGonagall. She drew her wand and performed the spell to return Harry's voice to average volume as she spoke. "That was extremely touching. Are you feeling alright?"

Harry nodded mutely, blinking furiously. McGonagall inclined her head and gave a small but understanding smile, flicking her wand at the lectern, which was gone in a puff of smoke, and then at the parchment bearing the will, which was floating downwards to the lounge floor. McGonagall's spell caught it in mid-air, and it too disappeared,

"Hey!" Harry yelled suddenly and indignantly, drawing his wand while McGonagall stowed away her own. "How dare you? That was Dumbledore's will! His will! –"

"Calm yourself, Harry," McGonagall answered with a hint of impatience. "Albus wanted you to keep the will. I have sent it to your bedroom."

"Oh," said Harry slowly. He had suddenly realised he was not ready to spend time in his bedroom with all these things Dumbledore had once owned; he did not want to probe the fabric of his grief anymore today. These possessions, Dumbledore's possessions in Harry's bedroom, whatever they were … now belonged to him. Harry felt confounded by the strangeness of the idea, until of course upset and sadness at last coursed through him once more, perhaps at the memory of a few of Dumbledore's well-chosen words, or of a twinkle in the old man's dancing blue eyes, or maybe of the selflessness he instinctively exemplified whenever it was needed. A lone tear eased effortlessly down Harry's cheek. He suddenly noticed the people in the lounge were now beginning to file out. Harry, his breath shallow from crying, joined the back of the queue.

"Harry," said a soft, far younger female voice than Professor McGonagall's, and whoever it was slipped their hand into his. "That was the bravest thing you've ever done."

Harry turned to Ginny and honestly did not know what to do … whether to smile; laugh; cry; agree; disagree; let go and run. Instead he did nothing and kept his hand firmly in Ginny's own. He thought it was maybe a bit of an overstatement on Ginny's part, considering he had done far braver things she was aware of, such as saving her from the Hogwarts underground lair of teenage Lord Voldemort, while at the same time battling a gargantuan serpent with a ruby-incrusted sword, but as he looked into the beautiful girl's large, emotional eyes, and saw her face was tear-stained like his, he knew she was right in some senses.

Ginny led Harry away from the small line of people down the corridor, until they entered a dimly lit, warm little room with a fireplace crackling in a merry way, orange flames licking the heavy air sharply. He knew she was about to leave, and Ginny let go of Harry and turned to face him, her face lit up by the fire. Harry made an odd mumbling sound as he rubbed his eyes under his glasses, and Ginny frowned.

"Is there something you want to say, Harry?"

There was one thing Harry so desperately wanted to say, but he knew it was totally unfeasible. He stammered out: "Well … how – how was your summer?"

Ginny looked suddenly baffled. "Rubbish, a bit like yours," she replied matter-of-factly, as if she was stating the obvious. Harry turned red, and opened his mouth to mumble once more, but Ginny spoke over him again.

"Listen, Harry, I know this is hard for you, I know you're a little lost for words … but if you don't have anything to say that will make me stay, I'm afraid I've got to go home …"

She looked pleadingly into his eyes, and Harry couldn't help but feel a strong desire to run out of the room swearing. He was adamant that it simply was not fair or feasible for him to have any sort of relationship with Ginny, no matter how achingly much he yearned for it. They simply looked at each other, both desperately, for some kind of reaction, for a very long, meandering moment.

Harry sighed despairingly. "Well," he said finally, in a quiet voice. "I suppose you better get back home."

Ginny merely blinked at him, gulping a little, before moving to the fireplace, although never taking her eyes off him. Part of Harry wanted to stop looking at her, at the pain she was trying and failing to hide in her face, but part of him wanted to just keep staring into her eyes … for as long as time would allow … But Ginny pulled from her trouser pocket a handful of what Harry knew to be Floo powder, which she threw into the large fire, which in turn transformed into vivid green. Still looking at Harry, but now almost reluctantly, she stepped into the fireplace and the flames … she was gone.

Harry could only shake his head – he remembered Dumbledore once telling Harry he often simply had too many thoughts and felt a need to siphon them off, and right at that moment, Harry could not have agreed more. What he wouldn't give a pensieve, right now. He didn't know what to do now; he decided a good start would be to leave this lonely little room. But the corridors were quiet too; it wasn't until he reached the kitchen that he found someone: Mrs Weasley.

"Oh, _Harry_, my _dear_!" she cried in a sort of tearful joy, as uncompromisingly emotional as ever. She whipped off her apron and smothered Harry into a tight hug. "Dumbledore would've been – would've been so proud of what you did … you brought a tear to my eye," she told him, weeping in great floods.

"Just _a_ tear?" Harry asked her incredulously, grinning, as she released him, and she gave a sniffling chuckle.

"Well, a few," she conceded. "But look at you, you're getting so tall, but so thin! You can have double helpings for lunch."

"What's for lunch?" Harry asked, just as he felt an uncomfortable squirm at hitting Ron, and Hermione's words … "_you better have sorted this by lunchtime."_

"I haven't decided yet," said Mrs Weasley, tying her apron back on. "Something hot and filling, I should think."

Harry nodded quietly, and Mrs Weasley looked at him unusually keenly for a moment, not yet turning to her stoves.

"You know, Harry, no one who dies is ever truly gone. Dumbledore will remain, in many ways. Even with your godfather, I'm reminded of him so much by … well … this very house I suppose. You can feel his presence; you see things that remind you of him, and that's not necessarily a bad thing. In fact, what's especially notable is that the portrait of Mrs Black has gone quiet ever since Sirius died … it makes you wonder that maybe she loved him after all."

Harry struggled to meet her eyes. "All I'm saying, Harry," Mrs Weasley continued. "Is that this house has a Sirius-feel."

Harry thought about it – following the will, he wasn't sure if he could take any more _emotional closure_, but then again, he never even had any after Sirius' death. That couldn't be healthy could it? He met Mrs Weasley's eyes time.

"Thanks, Mrs Weasley," he said seriously. "You know, I think I might actually take a walk around now … see if I can get what you mean …"

She smiled at him. "Just be back for lunch."

It was half-an-hour into his house-encompassing walk that Harry found himself in a room he wholly didn't recognise. It was somewhat dingy, and very dusty. Harry could not help but cough a little, and felt the hazy dust prickle his eyes. He stepped forward and closed the door, turning a golden doorknob glazed with a smothering layer of powdered dirt, which otherwise would have shone. He took another step forwards, noting how oddly empty and deserted the room was; for some reason Harry had expected it to be cluttered. On the deep red carpet were pale markings that told Harry a bed and a desk had once been in their places, and the walls, Harry saw as his eyes roved, seemed blank except for tiny little cracks in the handiwork – but Harry's eyes found the furthest away wall and he saw he was wrong. There was a lone portrait of a thickset, grey snake in a meadow, bordered by a magnificent yet unsurprisingly dusty bronze frame – Harry watched the dangerous-looking serpent slither in a out of the blades of grass of the painted meadow, and heard it quietly hissing; talking to itself, Harry knew and understood.

Then the snake suddenly seemed alert to the boy's presence – its slim eyes turned to him and the snake slithered from the background of the picture to the foreground. Harry approached it cautiously as the snake stared at him, flicking its tail, before it suddenly hissed: "Who goes there?"

Harry stopped walking forwards and looked at it. "Where am I?" he asked in parseltongue.

"In the bedroom of my old master," the snake told him. "How can you speak it? How can you speak snake language? – you are human …"

Harry frowned. "I just – can."

The snake rose up on its tail, as if to get a better look. "That is interesting," it declared.

A sudden idea just hit Harry – why was a room that looked fit for a prince, despite being old and underused, completely empty except for a portrait? Could it be that the last person to stay in this room had found a better way to conceal his belongings? Harry looked at the snake.

"Open," he hissed in the same language. The snake stared back, unmoving, at Harry, as if surprised or cautious at what had just been asked of him. Then the snake 's portrait swung outwards to reveal a small, open safe.

"You knew the password," the snake admitted. "My master did like them simple, I concede …"

Amazed at his own guesswork, Harry walked to the safe, not quite sure what he expected to find – perhaps money; jewels; magical artefacts? But Harry saw on the flat steel platform in the safe that there was nothing except a black leather-bound book. Harry pulled it delicately out of the safe and held it to the dim light of his room. He stared avidly at the front cover, which, in big gold lettering, read:

_THE DIARY OF REGULUS BLACK_

_Do not open it,_ said a strong voice in Harry's head. He recalled that Regulus Black had been a Death Eater, but, as he scraped back the details from his memory of the conversation he and Sirius, his now deceased godfather, had had downstairs by the Black tapestry two years ago, he remembered being told that Regulus' heart hadn't really been in being a Death Eater, and he had tried to back out. Harry's mind skipped forward in time a year, and he suddenly heard Remus Lupin's voice in his head at the Burrow exactly a year ago, on his last birthday:

"They've found Igor Karkaroff's body in a shack up north. The Dark Mark had been set over it – well, frankly, I'm surprised he stayed alive for even a year after deserting the Death Eaters; Sirius's brother Regulus only managed a few days as far as I can remember."

In Harry's mind, recklessness fought wariness. So his godfather's brother had been a parselmouth, just like him … and Voldemort … but Harry knew it was unfair to judge or compare in such a way. His finger thumbed the edge of the leather front cover of the diary, and with his other hand he closed the serpentine portrait door. He flicked open the book, to delve into the life of Regulus Black and the mystery within …


End file.
